


Pulse Of My Heart

by tsiviaravina



Series: Near Zero Contact [5]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alcohol, BDSM, Blindfolds, Collars, Crying, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Feels, Flogging, Fluff and Smut, Grief/Mourning, Hair-pulling, Hand Feeding, Heavy Angst, Marijuana, Massage, Melinda May Is a Good Bro, Memories, Mentions of Cancer, Moroccan Food, Neck Kissing, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Orders, Original Character Death(s), Paddling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Riding Crops, Safer Sex, Safewords, Scents & Smells, Shameless Smut, Spanking, Subspace, Swearing, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6317479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsiviaravina/pseuds/tsiviaravina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place immediately following S1E7: “The Hub”. AU SkyeWard BDSM Smut with Angst and Feels. LOTS OF FEELS!!! Skye tells Ward about her first Domme. There’s fluff. There’s smut. There’s even Philinda if you squint. There is more Moroccan food. There is also some serious grieving going on, and mentions of cancer-related hospice care and death. If you don’t think you can handle any of this, that’s okay. Please mind the tags. If I leave out anything, please let me know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulse Of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [little_angry_kitten18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_angry_kitten18/gifts), [Lily1986](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily1986/gifts).



> PLEASE NOTE: SERIES WILL BE ON HIATUS UNTIL MAY OF 2016!!!   
> Gifted again to the lovely little_angry_kitten18 for constant cheerleading, as well as Lily1986 for reminding me that, frankly, it was time for these kids to get their act together, and giving me a much-needed plot point.  
> I now have a tumblr account. You can find me for requests/prompts/snark etc. at tsiviaravina.tumblr.com.  
> I do not have a beta reader, so all errors and inaccuracies are mine.  
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters; I just play in the AoS sandbox from time to time. I do not own, nor am I making any money from the use of the song “Never-Ending Road” by Loreena McKennitt. The only characters that belong to me are Aidan, Samira, Rahma, and Najat. Trying to sue me would be a hilarious, futile effort for all those involved.

_“The road now leads onward_

_I know not where_

_I feel in my heart_

_That you will be there_

_Whenever a storm comes_

_Whatever our fears_

_The journey goes on_

_As your love ever nears…”_

_—“Never-Ending Road” by Loreena McKennitt_

 

“Her name was Aidan. Well…that’s what anyone who loved her—who really _knew_ her—called her.”

“Hmmm?” Ward’s arm tightens around her and he nuzzles the back of her neck at the whispered sentence. Why the hell does she feel the need to talk about this now, Skye thinks to herself, irritated. They had just performed an extraction for Ward and Fitz maybe…four hours ago? Everyone is bone-tired and wants nothing but to leave South Ossetia, the dregs of the S.H.I.E.L.D. assault, and a new set of fears far behind.

And she’s just found out that whoever dropped her off at St. Agnes’s was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

A woman.

_(mother?)_

(She also thinks she might have freaked out A.C. for a minute there when she hugged him. But, also for a minute there, when he relaxed into it, she’s pretty sure that when he’s expecting that there’s going to _be_ hugging, he’s a good hugger.)

But she barely had time to process this new information when Ward had shown up at her door, wanting to know if she “minded keeping him company” while Simmons checked him over (And she knows he’s secretly terrified of needles and wants to be able to squeeze her hand if Jemma insists on giving him a tetanus booster, or something like that…). Ward had been so exhausted that after Simmons had patched him up (no needles necessary), Skye had sent him to shower, eat, and then bossed his ass right into bed. He made it perfectly clear, however, by picking her up and tossing her over his shoulder (and giving her ass a strong smack when she tried to object) that he wasn’t going to bed without her, even if he did have a plethora of new bruises, some liquid stitches, and various cuts and scrapes.

She had been so glad he was back in one piece that there really hadn’t been much of a fight.

She had spent every moment he was away feeling as if she had been shoved rudely back into her old position of belonging to no place and to no one. So she had bitched and bossed and bullied until she made sure that Ward and Fitz were coming home, one way or another, the Hub, the System, and Agent Victoria Hand be damned.

Luckily, Jemma and May had been on board from the start. Coulson apparently ended up having a _very_ public snarling match about the _non-existent_ extraction plan with Victoria Hand over in Operations before ordering them to pack up and head to South Ossetia (Man, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents gossiped like fishwives when there was a good fight between higher-level agents.).

They had all been up so long that it was a relief to know that everyone was asleep, or almost there. Upon getting settled in bed, Ward had pressed a kiss to her temple and asked only that she put on the “music from Marrakech”. She had smiled, put Loreena McKennitt’s album, _An Ancient Muse,_ on low enough that it wouldn’t bother anyone else, stripped down, and slid under the covers, Ward snugging her up close to his side so she could run a hand from his neck to his hips, over and over, until his muscles finally relaxed against her.

She had kissed him softly and turned over on her side, wanting nothing more than to feel his arm draped over her and his body warm against hers as she slept.

But it’s an hour later and she can’t sleep.

Then two hours…

By the third, she knows that Aidan’s ghost won’t let her sleep tonight.

***

Ward wakes up when he senses he’s alone. The small space that she takes up on the mattress is still warm, so she just got up. He checks his phone—he’s only been asleep about three hours.

He wonders if Skye’s been asleep at all.

He gets up, pulls on the black pants from Morocco over his boxer briefs and grabs a T-shirt from a drawer. Then he goes to find Skye.

***

She’s sitting at the bar, which is unusual. She won’t turn down beer and has publicly ordered some of the most embarrassingly named mixed drinks on the planet, but she rarely ventures into hard liquor.

“Hey,” he says softly, knowing, somehow, that touching her would startle her. She turns towards him, her eyes and smile the kind of tired you get when your adrenaline’s been going too high for too long and the only thing that’s going to let you sleep is something that will silence whatever voices are going in your head, whether that “something” is sex, booze, or conversation—or a combination of the three.

She slides off the bar stool and walks up to him, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her head against his chest. He wraps his arms around her, breathing in the faded scent of jasmine oil and feeling the fabric of one of his own T-shirts under his hands.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, though the answer is pretty obvious.

A sigh…one of those sad ones. “Not tonight,” she finally answers.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asks, running a hand through her hair. “Scotch and no food is just going to give you one hell of a headache—”

“It’s not scotch. When Aidan visits, only the best handcrafted Irish whiskey will do,” she says, and he looks at the bar, seeing an unfamiliar dark bottle and not one, but two glasses of what he now assumes is Irish whiskey over ice.

“That’s the last of it, though,” she sighs again, turning her head to look at the bar. “The last batch she made. I don’t know what will settle her spirit now, no pun intended. She always turned up her nose at Jameson’s, unless it was Rarest Vintage Reserve, or the equivalent. She loved Patrón Silver, but tequila just made her horny. Never helped her sleep.”

“Aidan. She was your…Domme?” he asks, pretty sure he knows who and what’s keeping Skye awake now.

She nods, then presses her face into his shirt; lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” she says, looking back at the bar again. “That was Aidan.” She smiles. “‘The Fiery One’. Whiskey-making, ganja-growing, leather-loving, red-headed, road-tripping Aidan.” Skye presses her fingers to her lips but not before Ward catches the beginning of a shaky sob.

“She sounds amazing,” he says, and means it, somehow suddenly seeing a very Irish redhead, complete with freckles and mischievous twinkling green-hazel eyes, someone who could have given him a run for his money.

Someone who taught Skye how to do the same.

“She was,” Skye whispers. “She _was_ amazing. And now, she’s…”

“Gone,” Ward finishes for her, aching for her.

Skye nods, her head resting against his chest. “No more ‘artisanal Irish whiskey’. No more Hydroponic Homegrown. No more traveling from Ren Faire to Ren Faire in the summer and fall looking for the best leatherworkers to make collars and cuffs and clothes for her online store.” She takes a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just sometimes…”

“Sometimes the dead won’t rest,” he says, nudging her chin up with a finger so he can look her in the eyes. They’re filled with hurt and…bewilderment.

“I tried,” she whispers up at him. “ _I_ was the one taking care of her at the end. Until one of her exes thought that all of a sudden, Aidan’s _very_ disapproving, _very_ Irish Catholic family ‘had a right to know’ that she was dying—the same… _people_ who had called her ‘an embarrassment to the family’ when she came out at eighteen and then kicked her out of the house. By the time the cancer had her in hospice, she was only twenty-five. So her ex, who was pissed because Aidan didn’t want to see her, called the whole fam-damily. And they showed up. And they gave me an envelope with a fifty-dollar bill in it, ‘as a thank you’, and then made me _leave._ They made _me_ leave ‘their Kathleen’ while she was asleep from a morphine drip instead of her own pot and peat whiskey. And Aidan _doesn’t_ have a grave I can visit. Only ‘Kathleen Margaret’ does, and I never _met_ that scared, miserable girl. I only _knew_ Aidan, and I can only _mourn_ Aidan, and this is the only way I know how!”

She presses a shaking hand over her mouth and closes her eyes tight, but the tears still come, and they’re scalding, etching her face like acid until she feels Ward gently wiping them away.

Then Ward is leading her to the bar, pressing her glass into her hand. “To Aidan,” he murmurs. “To…the woman who is still the pulse of your heart.”

Her head snaps around to look at him; her face is pale. “How—how did you know—what she always called me?”

He looks steadily back at her. The Irish endearment is somewhat common, and just seems…appropriate. As appropriate as if someone had whispered it in his ear. He strokes Skye’s cheek. “She named you, too…didn’t she?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

Her hand shakes, the ice in her glass knocking against the sides. She closes her eyes and drinks the whiskey down, putting the glass back on its coaster on the bar. For the first time in a long time, she closes her eyes as she feels the whiskey warm her, relax her, the way it used to that one last charmed autumn, before they found out there was a bomb with a timer in Aidan’s brain…before they _knew._ For a moment, with her eyes still closed, she can smell body-warmed leather and pot smoke and feel cool fingers against her cheek…

She can hear a woman’s voice with laughter in it, saying, “Oh, pulse of my heart…”

Then Ward is there, warm and alive, his heart beating like a steady, well-tuned _bodhran_ under her ear. He picks up the bottle, now empty of whiskey, and hands it back to her. “Aidan will always be a part of you. And she will sometimes come back to…visit you. So keep the whiskey bottle. You never know when we’ll land in Ireland and you can get a refill.”

She laughs softly. “Yeah,” she whispers. “You never know.”

He slips an arm around her. “Ready to try sleeping again?” he asks.

She looks up at him and nods. They walk the small distance back to the bunks, stopping off at Skye’s so she can put Aidan’s bottle in a safe place. Finally, the door to Ward’s bunk slides closed and locks and Skye is nuzzling drowsily into Ward’s chest, her hand over his heart.

When she’s sure they’re asleep, Melinda moves into the dim light of the bar. She smiles—it’s small, but it’s there. “Pulse of my heart…” she murmurs, holding up the glass that’s holding whiskey and melting ice in a salute to a sister never met. She swallows down the contents, turns out the light, and takes the glasses to the galley.

***

When he wakes up the next morning, Skye is gone again. This is becoming an annoying habit of hers, especially when he rolls over and can smell her in the bedclothes. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and sees a hot-pink sticky note:

**_“Back at Hub._ **

**_Expected for debrief._ **

**_(Check your phone.)”_ **

Ward groans and checks his phone. He’s got an hour until his appointment with Coulson and Hand for debriefing. He yanks on a pair of exercise pants and a T-shirt and grabs what he needs for a shower.

To his slight befuddlement and surprise, there’s another hot-pink sticky note inside the shower stall:

**_“Planning surprise_ **

**_for post-debrief._ **

**_Pretty sure you’ll like it.”_ **

And there’s a smiley face.

And a heart.

And how does she turn his entire morning—his entire day—completely around with two sticky notes?

He takes the sticky note down and starts the shower.

He can’t help but smile when he feels hot water hit his hand. And as he showers and shaves and makes himself presentable, he can’t help grinning.

He knows what _he_ wants to do later tonight.

***

“Go check.”

“Skye—”

“Just be a good BFF and make sure he’s off the Bus!”

Jemma, feeling ridiculous, creeps quietly out of Skye’s bunk and checks Ward’s bunk, the shower, and the galley. With relief, she’s able to come back and tell Skye that Ward is on his way to his debrief.

“Thank you!” Jemma gets a smacking kiss on the cheek and a quick squeeze from Skye before she pulls out her phone and starts frantically texting.

“What exactly did you plan for Ward’s surprise?” Jemma asks suspiciously, her hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow at Skye, who is texting like mad and occasionally giggling.

“A _lot_ of food. Enough for everyone on the Bus. I was getting something to eat at the Hub, and, believe it or not, I met Samira, one of the cooks there, who just _happens_ to be Moroccan, and who has _two other sisters,_ Rahma and Najat, and all three were more than happy to deliver plenty of home-cooked Moroccan food for a good portion of my pay packet. We are having ‘Moroccan Night’!” Skye laughs and sends another text.

“What are you giggling about?” Jemma asks, curious.

“Some last-minute haggling. Apparently, the local price of strawberries has shot up like crazy. Not to mention almonds. There! By the time Coulson, Fitz, and Ward are debriefed out of their minds and May is done with maintenance, they should be here with the food. Now we just have to get everything else ready…”

“Everything else?”

“Go get in the shower and hurry! Do you have sandalwood essential oil and can we use it in one of your diffusers?”

“I don’t see why not, but—”

“Go! Shower! Get dressed in your kaftan and I’ll help you with your hair. Have you worn it yet for Fitz?”

“No,” Jemma blushes. “It’s so pretty, but I had no idea when to wear it.”

Skye put her hands on her hips and said, “You wear it whenever you want him to stop babbling about physics for fifteen solid minutes. Now, let’s get everything ready!”

***

When Samira, Rahma, and Najat arrive, they are literally pulling a small wagon loaded with provisions. Skye knows it would be a bit rude to peek, so she simply greets them and hands over an envelope thick with cash. The girls squeal over it and each one hugs Skye and kisses her on both cheeks until Skye is flushed and laughing.

“Need a hand with that?” May’s voice echoes out from the catwalk.

“Nope,” Skye grins. “But it _would_ help if _you_ wore _your_ kaftan, too.”

May raises an eyebrow, but Skye can see one corner of her mouth twitch upwards. “Please! You’ll look gorgeous in the red and gold!” May finally nods once and heads off to her quarters.

Skye leads the sisters to the stairs and they take turns bringing various containers and paper bags packed with food and drink upstairs to the galley. When everything is unpacked, she walks the other young women back down and hugs Samira one last time, promising to text her the next day to tell her, “…well, not everything! But plenty about the food!”

***

When Coulson, Ward, and Fitz finally climb back onto the Bus, they look ready to chew iron and spit nails. Victoria Hand is not an easy (or forgiving) woman. The lab is deserted, which makes Fitz’s shoulders droop slightly, and May isn’t waiting for them on the catwalk to make sure that they’re back safely, which makes Coulson’s shoulders droop slightly as well. Ward, on the other hand, is suddenly alert, cautious, and looking around.

Coulson quickly notices. “Something wrong?” he asks quietly, his hand resting lightly on his sidearm.

Ward finds himself blushing. “Skye left me a…note this morning. She said something about a surprise for tonight. Don’t know whether that’s good…or bad,” he finishes, looking a bit nervous.

Coulson relaxes, smiles his three-cornered smile, and when they get to the staircase that will take them up into the Bus’s living quarters, he gestures to Ward: “After you.”

Ward swallows and starts walking up the stairs. As he gets to the top, he could swear he smells sandalwood, but that’s impossible. But then he’s moving into the lounge and he can hear the music that Skye played in Marrakech. Then, he stops dead in his tracks, because the three women he lives and works with on a daily basis have all transformed themselves into three beautifully exotic creatures and all he can do is stop and stare.

He vaguely hears Coulson’s soft chuckle and Fitz’s intake of breath at the sight of Skye in her cream and gold kaftan and Jemma in peach and cream. Even May is dressed in a kaftan of red and gold. And he can not only smell sandalwood, but he can smell lamb and oranges and peppermint.

Skye smiles her small, shy smile at him and steps forward to take his hands, drawing him into the room. Two of the coffee tables have been pushed together and covered by the cream and gold tablecloth he bought. He can see a bowl heaped with strawberries, another with orange slices, and a platter of dates stuffed with almond paste. Bed pillows surround the low tables, covered by colorful scarves and a few throws that Jemma and Skye had purchased when the two of them passed the market on their way back to the Bus on their last morning in Morocco.

He finds himself pulling her into his arms, stroking her collar, and kissing her temple. “You pulled off ‘Moroccan Night’,” he murmurs into her hair, which is down in a profusion of curls, as is Jemma’s, Jemma, who giggles behind her hand and closes Fitz’s mouth with one finger, whispering something into the engineer’s ear that makes him flush bright red.

Coulson simply states, “You all look wonderful,” but his eyes are on May. “However, I think we should have the opportunity to change out of our suits before we have to sprawl on the floor to eat.”

A corner of May’s mouth quirks up as Coulson walks to the staircase that leads up to his office while Fitz and Ward walk quickly into their bunks.

***

Coulson is sitting (well, sprawling, mostly) next to Melinda, sipping another cup of mint tea. He hasn’t seen her this relaxed since before Bahrain. He can’t help but smile indulgently at the sight of Skye blushing as Ward feeds her another strawberry. His eyes also rest on the sight of FitzSimmons sharing the same plate, the two of them talking to each other at the same time, arguing about the different open-air cafes they had gone to in Marrakech.

Then Melinda leans over to murmur in his ear, “I’m glad you’re happy with the state of things, but I’m getting pre-diabetic.” He laughs and turns it into a cough, then simply looks at her, glad that he still has that privilege.

“I don’t see anyone twisting your arm,” he says softly. “Feel free to leave whenever you’d like.”

“And let you snag my share of homemade _mescouta_? Try again, Phil.”

This time, he doesn’t bother hiding his laugh.

***

There’s barely a crumb left when they’re done, and Coulson rallies everyone to help clean up so Samira can pick up the now empty pots, tureens, and containers the next morning. Skye straightens up the lounge, folding the throws and scarves, putting pillows back into storage, and carefully sliding the coffee tables back into place after folding up the tablecloth, which will need to be cleaned.

She’s putting everything away in her bunk when she hears her door close and lock behind her. Ward comes up behind her to wrap his arms around her. “You’re just a little bit amazing sometimes, did you know that?” he tells her, nuzzling her neck and smelling jasmine oil.

“I try,” she chuckles, sighing when the nuzzles turn into kisses.

“Well, tonight, you succeeded. FitzSimmons are curled up on the couch, pretending to watch Dr. Who while actually snuggling, and, miracle of miracles, May and Coulson are polishing off the rest of the tea and the _mescouta_ while exchanging phrases that begin with ‘Remember when…?’” He tightens his embrace. “May’s still wearing her kaftan.”

“And…what are we doing?” she asks, closing her eyes, leaning back into him, smelling his cologne.

“Well,” he says, “I _was_ hoping to seduce you.”

She can’t help laughing. “Not being very subtle, are we?”

“Not in the least,” he replies, pulling her hair aside so he can press kisses all over the sensitive skin there, letting his tongue trace the steel links of her collar.

She lets out a tiny whimper and brings up one hand to rub against the nape of his neck. She feels him sigh and relax against her and she leans her head back against his shoulder so he can reach more of the skin on her neck. Then he starts running his hands down her sides from her breasts to her hips. She can feel his tongue bathing the skin between her neck and her shoulder and she whispers his name.

“Mine,” he sighs into her ear, making her shiver.

“Yours,” she agrees, murmuring into his ear.

Then he’s gently pulling her by the hand to his bunk where the only light is from the hangar bay filtering through the window shades. She has no idea what it is between them—only that somehow, they’re intertwined…connected…complimentary. He hasn’t even kissed her yet, but she wants him even as he’s easing the kaftan over her head, chuckling when he sees her wearing the lace chemise he loves hugging her curves.

She smiles at him, pulling his shirt off, watching as he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, already relaxing into the touch of her hands. She stands on tiptoe, pressing kisses against the pulse in the hollow of his throat. She can feel him tangle a hand in the roots of her hair and pull gently. She whimpers until he kisses her neck over the center of her collar.

“Yours,” she murmurs again, his hand tracing the line her collar makes against her throat. He pulls her tight against him and she can feel his cock hardening against her.

“I want you,” he whispers, low and hot, into her ear.

“You have me,” she answers, the same way she did after he first collared her.

His kiss starts out with the gentle brush of his lips over hers. She whines in the back of her throat, trying to deepen the kiss. He simply tightens his grip in her hair and deepens the kiss at his own pace, until he’s urging her mouth open with the brush of his thumb over her lower lip. Suddenly, he can taste strawberries and peppermint and he has to pull away after that, both of them breathing hard and fast, and he’s studying her face, looking into her eyes, and she wants to give him whatever he wants, if he would only tell her what it is.

Her eyes are a little glassy and her pupils are large, but nowhere near fully blown. He wants her here, with him, for as long as she can manage. He loosens his grip on her hair, resting his forehead against hers and closing his eyes. “Pulse of my heart,” he whispers, pulling her close when he hears her swallow down a sob. He feels her arms wrap around his neck and he holds her as tears land on his shoulder.

She feels him pick her up, so gently, so carefully, treating her _again_ as if she’s something precious and rare. As if she’s something to be _cherished._ He lays her on the bed and carefully wipes the tears from her face. She cups his cheeks in her hands, feeling the beginnings of stubble along the planes of his face. He’s looking at her again, but this time there’s hunger mixed with the need, and she’s ready when his body moves to cover hers like a wave.

He grinds himself into her slowly, needing to have control, to be in control. He holds both of her wrists in one hand and traces her collar with the other, feeling her muscles relax against him, except where her thighs tremble against his hips. “Pulse of my heart,” he whispers again, and this time, after taking in a single shaking breath, she nods.

“Yes,” she whispers, and she feels something in her let go, but this time, she doesn’t have to fall, to be unaware, to run from it; instead, she can move towards it, reach for it. “Please,” she whispers. “Please…” And then he’s moving against her and it feels exquisite—slow and sweet as sun-warmed honey. She lets her head fall back as she moves her hips up to meet his, her clit hard and throbbing and her muscles starting to clench together and then she can feel the moisture trickling from her.

“More…” he hears her beg, and he groans softly, running his fingers between her legs, and she is so wet—for him and from him. He eases the chemise up and over her head, tossing it to the floor. He pulls her panties down and off and they’re soaked. He strokes the inside of one thigh and she spreads her legs open for him. “Yes,” she whispers when he penetrates her with two fingers, then adds a third.

She’s panting and wet and wanting, but she knows better by now than to move. She keeps her hands above her head, hands fisted in the sheets, even when he lets go of her wrists. He moves down her body to roll one nipple in his fingers and draw the other into his mouth, chafing it gently with his tongue. “I can’t…” she pants, knowing it’s a lie, that she can and she will, whatever he wants. She feels him chuckle against her breast.

“No,” he corrects her. “Not, ‘I can’t’, but ‘I want’.” He pulls her nipple into his mouth again for a moment. “Tell me what you want, Skye,” he says, the words ghosting over her breast in warm puffs of air. “What are you so greedy for?” He quickens the pace of and deepens the thrust of his fingers inside her and hears her gasp. “Was it that?” he asks, taking her other nipple into his mouth, teasing it into a tight, hard peak with his tongue.

“I want you inside me,” she begs.

He chuckles again, infuriating her. “I am,” he replies, thrusting his fingers in even deeper, his thumb just skimming her clit, making her inhale sharply. He opens his eyes and raises his head to look at her. He can see the combination of lust and frustration there. She closes her eyes and tries to slow her breathing, but he lightly presses his thumb against her clit, making her eyes fly open again.

“Tell me what you really want, Skye,” he says again, only he says it in that voice, steel wrapped in velvet, and she can only obey the command behind that voice.

“I want…” She has to stop and close her eyes—she’s not used to this, to being all the way up and asking for exactly what she wants.

He slips his free hand into her hair and gives a long tug, feeling her relax again. “It’s all right, Skye,” he murmurs. “I know what you want. I just want to hear you say it.”

“I…I want your cock inside me. I w-want you…to fuck me, until I can’t help coming…Please, sir. That’s what I want.” She feels another good, long tug on her hair, sending her a little deeper, followed by his lips brushing against hers.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against her lips. “You’ve been so good; so brave. You can come once. Nod if you understand.” She swallows and nods. He takes his hand out of her hair and travels down until he can use his lips and tongue to suck and lap at her clit.

Shit, shit, _shit! God,_ it feels so _good,_ being worked over by both his hand and his mouth. She feels her hips rolling with every thrust, and he’s _helping_ her get there—he’s _making_ her come. When she rolls her hips down, his fingers are thrusting into her, and when she moves her hips upwards, his mouth moves just right against her clit and she slaps a hand over her mouth to keep back her moans and moves faster.

Her muscles clench around his fingers and she’s soaking wet again and he can taste her now, and _fuck,_ is it ever good. Her hips are rolling smoothly but quickly, and almost before he can sense it, her muscles pulse around his fingers and her hips jerk once…twice…and then stop.

He eases his hand out of her and grabs the towel he placed on the nightstand to wipe his hand. He bends down and cups her head in one hand, kissing her gently after she moves her hand from her mouth. “Better?” he whispers against her lips. She just pants and nods.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispers after a minute or two. He just chuckles and opens the top drawer of the nightstand to fish out a condom.

He stands up to finish stripping down and feels her eyes on him. He turns and hands her the condom. A bit to his surprise, she takes him in her mouth and he knows to just sink his hands in her hair and hang on.

She loves this because he’s _almost_ too big to be comfortable, but not quite. She goes slow, wanting to make him feel good, but not wanting him to come, so she combines using her mouth with her hand until his hands tighten in her hair and she hears him growl out, “Enough!” She quickly opens the condom and rolls it down his cock. Then she licks her lips and looks up at him for direction.

Because, although he’ll fuck her until she’s coming her brains out, he’s still in charge.

When his breathing is a little steadier, he tells her, “Hands and knees, towards me.” She follows the order instantly, positioning herself on the bed so he can comfortably stand up while he fucks her. He runs a finger through her folds; she’s still nice and wet and ready. He enters her and hears her eager little whimper. He holds her hips firmly, pulling out almost all the way, then slamming back in again.

She hears herself whimper, “Yes!” and “Please…” and “More!” as he uses her and moves himself inside her. Some part of her loves that idea—has always loved that idea since she discovered how good sex could really feel. If the person she’s fucking is the right person, she loves the idea of being used. She spreads her knees apart a bit wider and gets a good grip on the sheets before clenching herself as tight as she possibly can around Ward’s cock.

She tightens around him and he almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it—she’s _completely_ turned the tables on him. All he can do now is fuck her _exactly_ the way she wants him to, _exactly_ how she has been begging him to—hard and fast. He barely knows what he’s whispering to her as she thrusts back against him, but they must be the right words, because he can hear her whisper fiercely, “Yes— _fuck!_ Yes!” and he can feel her walls spasm around his cock and the muscles under his hands go tense, then relax, and she’s still on her hands and knees, but her head is hanging down and she’s gulping in air.

He bends forward over her, holding her down with the weight of his body, pressing his lips to where her collar touches the back of her neck, and placing one hand on her left hip so he can work her clit with his right hand. When he moves, she goes off like a fucking rocket.

Her head comes up just enough so she can breathe, and all he can hear is her panting, “ _Please_ don’t stop… _please_ don’t stop… _please_ don’t stop...” She’s slamming back into him as hard as he’s slamming into her, and he feels her come again and again and he makes her come one final time before grabbing her hips and coming hard into her trembling, exhausted body.

He carefully eases himself out of her, quickly tossing the condom and sees Skye, her head hanging down, muscles still trembling, on her hands and knees. “Skye? Skye…can you hear me?” She nods. Thank God. He eases her down on to the sheets, laying her on her stomach, turning her head to the side. He quickly drinks half a bottle of water, then gets in beside her, pulling the covers over the two of them, pressing himself into Skye’s side.

“Open your eyes for me, Skye. Open your eyes.” He runs a hand through her hair, gently urging her over and over to open her eyes. After what seems like a very long time, her eyes flutter open and she pushes herself up on her hands, blinking owlishly in the dim light.

“Ward, what…oh. Oh, _God!_ Are you okay? How long was I out?” She rolls over on her side to face him, then grabs her head with one hand. “Ow, ow, _ow, damn it!_ This hasn’t happened in...forever!” She manages to half-lean, half-crawl over him to grab a bottle of water. She’s shaking too badly to open it, so he calmly opens it for her, rolls over, and grabs a bottle of ibuprofen and shakes out two tablets, wordlessly handing them to her. “Thank you,” she mumbles as she quickly swallows them down with most of the bottle of water.

“I’m so, so, so sorry that I didn’t warn you about—”

He chuckles, and stops her apology with a kiss. “I’m fine, now that I know you’re used to passing out from having incredibly intense sex.” She slaps her hand over her face and groans, leaning on his chest. “Finish your water. I’m going to grab us each another bottle.” He finishes his own and grabs two more from where he had started stashing them when athletic sex with Skye had become a regular event in his bunk.

He gets back in beside her, nudging her over a bit. “Here,” he says, passing her a bottle of water. “How’s the head?” he asks, cracking open his own bottle.

“Getting better,” she sighs. He slips an arm around her and pulls her against him. He can see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat and feel tremors passing up and down her body. “Grant, I am so sorry…” she tries again, looking up at him, her eyes big and wet.

He kisses her gently until she stops trying to apologize and just relaxes against him. “It’s okay, Skye. It’s okay. In fact, I’ll probably be feeling pretty damned secure about my masculinity for the next year or two— _Ow!_ What? You were only out for about a minute, minute and a half max, I swear.”

She laughs, then grabs her head again. “Ugh. I _hate_ this. _You_ might be wanting to thump your chest with testosterone-fueled pride, but I am having a _total_ sex hangover.”

“A sex hangover. Seriously?”

“As a heart attack. The headache will pass in about fifteen minutes. Same with the tremors.”

Ward puts his bottle of water down and pats her bottom. “Come on. Lay down on your stomach. I’ll get the Tiger Balm.”

“Ward, you don’t have to—”

“Did that sound like a choice, rookie? On your stomach or you get pushups tomorrow morning. And I happen to enjoy taking care of you.” He pulls on a pair of boxer briefs and grabs the Tiger Balm out of his workout bag. Skye takes a few more swallows from her second water bottle, puts it on the nightstand, and lays on her stomach.

And then his hands are warm and soothing on her overstimulated, overtired muscles. He follows his usual path from the nape of her neck down to the base of her spine. He makes sure to massage her arms and legs until they stop trembling, and then he works on her hands and feet. By the time he’s done, her eyes are closed and her breathing is deep and even. He wipes his hands, carefully draws the bedclothes up over her, and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt so he can take a quick shower and get ready for bed.

He grabs a nightshirt and a pair of boxers from Skye’s bunk for her and quietly enters his own bunk. He smiles at her when he sees that she’s still on her stomach, but her head is resting on her folded arms, and she’s just watching him putter around, cleaning up, with soft eyes and a soft smile on her face.

He sits down beside her and hands her the nightshirt and boxers. She takes them, then pulls his face down for a kiss. “I’m gonna wash up. Be right back.” She eases herself out of bed and manages to pull on the boxers and, with some help, tugs the nightshirt over her head.

After Skye has toddled off to take care of “Bedtime Bathroom Business”, Ward changes into a clean pair of exercise pants and foregoes the T-shirt since he’d rather feel Skye against his skin anyway.

He’s almost asleep when Skye slips back into his bunk, closing and locking the door. He can smell the soap she uses to wash her face, toothpaste, and the faded scent of jasmine. He lays on his back so she can use him as a pillow, her arm and head on his chest and her leg crooked over his hip. She sighs and relaxes into him as he plays with her hair.

He presses a kiss into the top of her head. “She would be proud of you, you know,” he whispers to Skye. She tightens her grip on him for a moment, and then relaxes.

“Really?” she asks him, hopefully.

“Absolutely. Now close your eyes and get some rest.” She snuggles closer, if that’s possible, nuzzling into his chest.

He waits until her breathing slows before closing his eyes and surrendering to sleep.

In his dreams, he can taste peat whiskey, smell sun-warmed leather, and hear two women laughing with each other.

His dreams have never been so peaceful.

***

She’s warm. So warm and…tingly. She can feel, as she slowly rises from sleep, a slight ache to her body that’s gradually being replaced by the pleasure of lips and tongue between her legs. She doesn’t open her eyes, but reaches down and feels short, soft hair that she knows is dark against her skin, and smiles. “Grant…” she whispers, and she feels his lips and tongue hot against her skin. She stretches her thighs and spreads them apart even more.

He chuckles against her. “Greedy,” he whispers, then wraps his lips around her clit, sucking gently, massaging it with his tongue.

She muffles a moan with her hand. “Spoiled,” she corrects him in a whisper, her hips rolling upwards into his mouth.

He chuckles again, spreading her apart with his thumbs so he can taste her, salt-sweet, like seawater. He’s using his tongue to sweep his way from the base of her folds to her clit, drinking her in, and he’s the one greedy for her—for her taste, for her scent, for the feel of trembling, sensitive flesh in his mouth. For the sound of her whispering his name, begging, pleading, urging him to let her come.

He finally grabs her hips to hold her still, mouth buried between her legs, lips and tongue working steadily at her clit now, and she has one hand muffling her moans and the other is stroking the back of his head.

She comes in a burst of heat between her legs and lights dancing behind her closed eyes and can’t help the way her hips spasm up towards him. She’s whispering “More…” and “Don’t stop…” and “Please…” and he gives her more and doesn’t stop, even while she’s pleading with him. And he hits that magical point with her when she’s pressing herself into his mouth and is rolling her head back and forth on the pillows and is saying, “Yes…yes…yes…” over and over and over as she comes for him again and again and again.

He pulls away when her thighs start to tremble, not wanting to push things too hard after last night. He lets her body cradle his for a moment while he kisses her, trying to ignore the hardness of his cock, which has become way too interested in the proceedings. When he pulls back to look at her, she has that look in her eye and he knows what she wants especially when she grabs her water bottle and takes a drink.

“You spoil me,” she whispers in his ear, “and I get to spoil you.” Her hand is inside his pants and finds him, rock hard and ready for her.

“Skye—”

“Hush. Do you want to be on your back or do you want to stand?” And he knows that’s the only decision he’s going to get to make for the next few minutes.

He stands, which lets her sit on the edge of the bed and take him in her mouth. As always, he sinks his hands into her hair, biting back a moan as she starts working him over with her lips and tongue, sucking and swirling and stroking him, one hand tight around the base of his cock and the other tight on his hip.

This morning, it doesn’t take much, and soon he’s gasping her name as he comes.

She slides over to the other side of the bed, letting him collapse and catch his breath. “My _God…_ you’re going to kill me one of these mornings; you know that, don’t you,” he murmurs into her hair.

“I know,” she agrees amicably. “But it’s one hell of a way to go,” And though the line is old and cheesy and a total cliché, he finds himself laughing, because it’s the truth.

***

To everyone’s surprise and delight, when Samira and her sisters come to pick up their various food containers, they bring a bag from a pastry shop filled with enough Gazelle’s Horns for six hungry S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. When Skye tries to object, Samira simply hugs her and kisses her on both cheeks again.

“We know one of the bakers,” Samira says with a blush, adjusting her pale blue headscarf while her sisters giggle.

Skye raises an eyebrow at her, but simply tells the girls goodbye at the end of the cargo ramp as they set off to the cafeteria for another day of work. Huh, she can’t help thinking. Three more friends.

Then she races upstairs to make sure Fitz isn’t snitching from her plate.

***

Later, after an afternoon sparring session, Ward stretches himself out on one of the couches, pretending to read _Matterhorn,_ while he’s actually playing with Skye’s hair. At one point, she says to him, without looking up from her laptop (he’s getting used to that), “What page are you on now?”

He looks down at her suspiciously. “Thirty-two. Why?”

She chuckles. “You were on page thirty when we left Peru. Nice way to use a piece of modern literature for a prop, Super Spy.”

He smiles and snaps the book shut, closing his eyes and letting his head rest against the back of the couch. “Busted,” he says, not upset in the least to be called out on his tortoise-like reading speed. He bends over to kiss the top of her head. “Tell me a story,” he says, resting his head on his hand.

She chuckles again. “’Kay. What kind of story?”

“One that doesn’t contain explosions, bizarre tech, weapons of mass destruction and that doesn’t end in _—ow—_ bruised ribs. Maybe one that has a happy ending, even.”

“So do you just want to pick a Disney movie, or do you want to hear an actual story?” She’s doing that thing where she’s talking to him but is still typing on her laptop, which he still finds a little strange at times.

He tugs on her hair until she tilts her head up to look at him so he can give her a kiss. “Tell me a story about Aidan,” he says softly, looking at her.

She smiles at him. “You really want to know about us, huh?”

“I do,” he says. “But tell me about a good time.”

She shuts her laptop down and toes off her shoes. “Move over, then,” she says, nudging him back against the couch so she can lay next to him. She pulls his arm around her and he holds her tight to keep her against him.

“Now, you understand, first you have to use your imagination. So take yours out and dust it off,” she teases him.

“My imagination has been getting a pretty good workout lately, thank you, so stop stalling, rookie,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Close your eyes. What? I’m being serious, my S.O.; close your eyes.” And she pokes him lightly, trying to avoid any healing bruises. Ward chuckles, but does as she asks.

“Now, we’re not on a plane. Keep your eyes shut! I’m being serious! We’re not on a plane. We’re most likely camping out at a Ren Faire with the rest of the workers and the business owners. There’s a fire going in front of us, and there are other people sitting with us, and maybe even a dog or two. It’s barely past Midsummer, so it isn’t truly dark yet, but it’s getting there,” Her voice is soft and has gone a little husky.

“Someone somewhere is playing a harp. You can hear it—it’s soft and low and rambling. It doesn’t distract you; it seems to fit right in. And then someone says, ‘Do you remember that one time when Aidan…’ and someone else stops them and says, ‘Wait! If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it right!’ Now you can hear someone pulling out actual glasses, and you hear ice clinking into them, and you hear liquid being poured and you can smell the peat whiskey. You can probably also smell a little homegrown—not a lot, but someone’s passing a joint around. And since it probably is _actually_ homegrown, it smells pretty good.” And suddenly, he’s there around that fire, laying on a blanket with Skye in the summer twilight. He can hear that harp and roll the whiskey around his mouth. He can smell the joint, but Skye’s right…it’s only a little, and it mixes just right with the fragrance from the fire.

“Now that everyone is settled, someone asks again… ‘Do you remember that one time when Aidan found Skye?’” He can feel Skye relax against him and hear her chuckle. “And since I’m Skye, it’s my story to tell.” She’s resting her hand over his and is gently running her thumb over his knuckles. She sighs softly, once.

“It was, literally, a dark and stormy night. I had just turned nineteen, or assumed I did; no one knew my exact date of birth. I had been running on my own for the past year and I had saved up enough money to see one of the largest Ren Faires around. I was being extremely stupid and was hitchhiking, but once it started raining and got dark, I was having very little luck. The last good long ride I had gotten was from a pretty decent truck driver. Went by the name of ‘Mack’. But that had been a good five miles ago and I had I don’t know how many to go.

“I was getting cold and tired and I started looking for any place to hole up—a house, an abandoned barn, a roadside market stand. Anything with a roof. Then the next thing I knew, I could hear a horn blaring and a huge van almost runs me over. Ironic, considering everything, no? It’s shiny and dark colored and I’m convinced that I am going to be abducted for some nefarious purpose when a young woman leans her head out of what I’m now realizing is the passenger seat of a minivan and yells, ‘Get your skinny ass in here before you get abducted and killed! Don’t you have the sense that God gave a peanut?’”

Ward breaks in with a laugh. “So that’s where that phrase came from.”

Skye chuckles. “Oh yes. That one was one of Aidan’s favorites. I yell back, ‘If you can’t tell, I’m soaking wet!’ She just opens the door, laughs, and says, ‘That’s how I like my women anyway. Get the hell in here before you die of pneumonia.’ And yes, I knew what she meant by the comment, and I wouldn’t have taken it from a man, but Aidan was already climbing back into the driver’s seat and starting the van, and something in me wanted to trust her, so I trusted my gut and got the hell in.

“The first thing I noticed was that she had jacked the heat up. Second thing I noticed was that she had covered the passenger seat with towels. I dumped my backpack and bag behind the seat and climbed in, finally warm and not getting rained on. She has her hazards going, and the Indigo Girls are playing over the speakers. The little overhead lights are on and I can see she’s a fine-boned redhead. I look at the towels I’m sitting on and say, ‘So you were expecting me?’ She gives me this _look,_ a look that I will get to be _very_ intimate with _very_ quickly, and she says, ‘Something like that, yeah. I’m Aidan, by the way,’ and holds out her hand. I mutter, not very graciously, ‘Mary Sue.’ She laughs, shakes my hand—and man, her grip is strong—and says, ‘We’ll have to work on that name.’

“So she hands me a couple of towels and I use one for my hair and one for the rest of me. She looks at me again and says, ‘Jump into the back, behind the curtain. I’ve got plenty of dry clothes if yours are all soaked. Change into something dry or you’ll never get warm.’ I roll my eyes a little, but all she does is say, ‘I heard that. Go change.’

“I laugh, and get in the back behind the curtain. There’s a big inflatable mattress and a set of matched luggage. I rummage through my own stuff, but it’s all soaked through. So I go through her stuff. She’s bigger than me—not fat, just tall and, from what I could tell on a handshake alone, fairly strong. I find a clean sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. I strip everything off since I’m wet to the skin and yank on dry clothes. I’m ready to believe in God again at this point.

“I use my own belt on her jeans so they’re not falling down around my ankles, and she tosses the wet towels back to me and points to a rather large laundry basket. I chuck them in and climb back into the front. She says, ‘At least you look like a human being,’ laughs, turns off the hazards, signals that she’s getting back on the road, and we’re off to the races. Or, at least to the closest truck stop, as it turns out.

“I learn that Aidan isn’t comfortable with someone unless she’s fed them somehow, at least once. We go to the family side of the truck stop and I grab my brush and go to the bathroom to untangle my hair. When I get back, there are two huge platters of food and I eat like I haven’t eaten in days. Which is almost true—I was down to my last five-fingered discount pack of LUNA bars and a couple of bottles of water.

“So now she’s looking at me, and she’s not the kind of woman you would ever call ‘pretty’. I thought, at first, she was a little plain, until I saw how she could mess with her hair and makeup and clothes and change into someone absolutely stunning. And by the end of the week, when I was full-on head-over-heels for her, I just thought she was beautiful all the time.

“But she’s looking at me and asks me, ‘Tell me the truth. How old are you? I won’t make you go home if you’re running from something, but I’ll find you a safe place to stay.’ So I keep eating like the food is going to disappear at any moment and manage to explain my situation—just turned nineteen, was kicked out of the orphanage when I turned eighteen, and had been a year running the roads. I find out that she’s twenty-three and was kicked out of her home when she was eighteen for telling her parents that she liked girls, not boys, and that she has an internet-based business and that no, it thankfully had nothing to do with porn.”

Skye takes a breath and stops. After a considerable pause, she continues. “And…that’s how Aidan found me. Anything more and…we’ll be here all day.”

Ward kisses her temple again, hearing the missing bits and pieces she wants to keep to herself—about whatever did or didn’t happen that night on the mattress in the back of Aidan’s van. About being found and finally being kept by someone. And about falling in love with someone for the first time.

He hears her sniffle and sees her wipe at her eyes.

“Hey, hey,” he says to her softly, stroking her hair. “If telling me about Aidan hurts—”

“No! No—it’s just—no one’s wanted to hear about her in so long that it…it just…”

“It just hurts,” he says, slipping both arms around her. She turns in the circle of his arms until her head is resting on his chest.

“Yeah,” she whispers, trying to keep from getting tears on his shirt.

He just pulls her closer and whispers, “I have other shirts, you know. It’s okay, Skye.”

And he rocks her gently while she cries.

***

She’s maudlin.

She hates being maudlin.

It means another night of no sleep, another night not with Aidan’s ghost, but with the ghosts of Aidan’s family, and the ex who intimated that Skye _couldn’t_ be capable of caring for Aidan properly “in her final days”. (And _Jesus God,_ would Aidan have laughed at that one.)

And it means another night with the ghost of her twenty-one year-old self who didn’t know—didn’t understand—that she should have done _anything_ but walk away.

So she’s sitting at the bar with a cup of peppermint tea, instead, hoping it might help her fall asleep.

As Aidan would have said to her, _well, shit._

She closes her eyes and rests her forehead in her hands.

Then there’s the sound of glass against glass—a bottle being placed on the bar.

She opens her eyes.

Connemara Peated Single Malt Irish Whiskey.

Well…shit! (Thankfully, it’s an all-purpose phrase.)

May lines up three glasses with ice and pours.

She presses one of the glasses into Skye’s hands.

“To the woman who will always be the pulse of your heart,” May says softly, clinking her tumbler against Skye’s. “Now drink, and go to sleep.”

“But—How did you—Where—?”

“You’re not the only one with well-placed friends at the Hub. I called in a favor. Now drink. Then go to sleep.”

Skye muses she is nothing if not well-trained, so she drinks, the smell of peat and the taste burning just enough so she can pretend that’s why she has tears in her eyes.

She slips off the stool she was sitting on, and makes her way back to Ward’s bunk.

May takes her place, sipping slowly, watching the night sky edge closer to dawn.

***

To her surprise, Ward is awake, waiting up for her.

She gets under the covers and nuzzles his chest.

“Did you—?” she asks.

“Nope,” he replies.

“Then how—?”

“Don’t know.”

She yawns and wraps an arm around him. “Okay.” She’s suddenly too tired to think about it anymore.

Ward holds her and watches the time pass.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

“Skye?” he whispers.

He smiles as she simply sighs and cuddles closer.

They both sleep, and for once, neither one is haunted by irrevocable choices.

***

She wakes up well-rested, warm, and alone.

She pushes herself up and sees a yellow sticky note on the nightstand.

**“Sleep in.**

**That’s an order.**

**Text me when you**

**want breakfast.”**

And there’s a smiley face.

And a heart.

She grabs her phone.

**_Skye: I’m up. French Toast?_ **

She hears a chuckle outside, and then footsteps as Ward unlocks, then opens the door to let himself in.

He’s sweaty and flushed and has obviously been working out for some time, but she can tell this will be an interesting day, because she sees a bead of sweat roll down his neck and she suddenly wants to climb him like a tree just so she can lick it off.

She kneels up on the bed so when he kisses her, she can wrap her arms around his neck and not let go. She feels him smile against her mouth before he gives her one of those kisses that make her thighs tremble. When he pulls his head back a little, he chuckles again. “I can tell it’s gonna be one of those days,” he murmurs with a sigh.

“‘One of those days?’” she asks.

He draws his T-shirt over his head and she obeys the implicit command and runs her hands from his neck to his waist. She also decides that it would be a great idea to press a line of kisses against his throat. It _is_ a great idea because he pulls her closer and tangles a hand in her hair.

“Yeah,” he sighs, pressing himself against her. “Definitely one of those days when we don’t leave this bunk except to forage for food kind of days.” And he tugs on her hair and presses his cock firmly into her belly.

“Well, well, well…” she laughs. “Are we having weapons training, my S.O., or are you just _that_ excited about making me breakfast?”

“In this job, you need to learn how to handle all _kinds_ of different weapons, rookie,” he murmurs into her ear before grabbing her hips and grinding against her.

An exchange of heated kisses later has Skye asking breathlessly, “Do we want to risk a horrible death if May finds out we had sex in the shower again?”

Ward presses his forehead into Skye’s and groans audibly. “We can’t. Coulson made that abundantly clear after the first time they caught us—trust me. I love you, but not enough to have to clean the shower from top to bottom with a toothbrush and bleach.”

He feels her freeze. “What?” he hears her whisper.

“Coulson—our C.O.— _very_ scary man when he wants to be—oh.” He swallows hard and looks at her. She’s pale and shaking.

And he realizes what he’s just said.

He takes her face in his hands. “I love you.”

Her eyes search his face, and he hopes to God that she finds whatever she’s looking for in his unwavering gaze.

“Say it again,” she whispers.

“I love you,” he tells her again, not breaking her gaze.

He swallows hard again, and whispers the phrase that will make her believe him: “Pulse of my heart…”

Then her arms are around his neck and her head is pressed into his shoulder and he can hear her whispering, “I love you…so much. So much.”

He picks her up and sits down on the bed, wrapping his arms around her, letting her press her head against his chest so she can hear his heart beat. “I love you, Skye,” he says softly, and this time it comes out effortlessly.

“I love you, Grant…but it’s scary.” She looks up at him with big, dark eyes. “Is it okay if…loving you…feels scary?”

He kisses her forehead, then looks at her again. “It’s more than okay, Skye,” he whispers. “Do you remember when I said that things between us had been exhilarating and terrifying?” She nods. “Loving you is _absolutely_ exhilarating and terrifying. But I…don’t know how to do anything else when it comes to you. All I know _how_ to do, all I _can_ do…is love you.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she smiles. “Yeah. I sure as hell don’t know what else to do with you, either.” She presses a kiss to that one sensitive spot under his jaw and he smiles and closes his eyes.

“Say it again,” he whispers, keeping his eyes closed.

“I love you,” he hears her whisper.

“Again,” he demands, the words washing through him, healing places in him that he had thought permanently broken.

“I love you,” she murmurs in his ear, then rests her head on his shoulder and sighs.

There’s a new, but comfortable silence between them for a moment.

“But, seriously…a toothbrush and bleach?”

He laughs as she straddles his lap and kisses him.

He whispers in the back of his mind, _Thank you._

But _this_ time, he knows who he’s saying it to.

***

He is hard and fills her full and is moving exactly right to make her gasp and whimper and beg and plead. “Not ‘demon-lover’…that’s an ignorant phrase…Call him your ‘daemon-lover’…that’s closer to the truth…” She can hear Aidan’s whisper, sending chills down her spine. And yes, he’s her daemon-lover, connecting her to the divine, her beloved, more a truth in her life than anything she’s known since Aidan…

And his lips on hers are sweet and his fingertips on her skin are tiny brushfires…

“Remember…loyalty is sometimes the greater part of love…”

_“Aidan!”_

She sits up suddenly, the sheet pooling around her hips, her hand snapping up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide and wild.

He wakes immediately, and sits up next to her. “Skye?”

“A dream…I had a…really weird dream, that’s all.” And she finds she’s panting and she can’t get enough air, and her heart is going a million miles an hour.

Dimly, she feels Ward pulling her into his lap, pressing her head to his chest. She can hear his heart beating, slowly, steadily. “Skye, breathe with me, okay?” she hears him say and slowly, slowly, she’s able to match her breaths to his, until she realizes that she’s curled up on his lap, and one of his arms is wrapped tightly around her while he gently strokes her hair with the other. He’s rocking her gently, back and forth, his lips pressed into her hair.

“I love you,” she gasps out, and then the tears fight their way out of her chest in harsh, choking sobs.

He rubs her back in soothing circles and doesn’t try to stop her weeping, keening grief, recognizing it for what it is—all the tears she had never cried for Aidan until now; the pain and relief of finally letting go.

So he holds her and rocks her and whispers, “I love you,” over and over into her hair until the sobs subside into sniffling and she relaxes against him, her head over his heart, her hand clinging to his shoulder.

He leans over and grabs tissues, pressing them into her hands. “Wipe your eyes and blow your nose,” he orders softly, handing her a bottle of water when she’s done. “Can you drink some of that for me?” he whispers to her, and he feels her nod against his chest.

She drinks the water and sighs shakily. “I love you,” she whispers. “I love you.”

He tilts her face up and places a feather-light kiss on her lips. “I love you, too.”

She pulls his head down so she can kiss him again, but she’s still trembling, and she kisses him with desperation. “Please…I need…”

“I know,” he tells her as he slips a hand into her hair. “I’m here.”

And then he’s kissing her, his mouth hard and firm and demanding. She whimpers in relief as he tugs her hair, long and hard, making her cling to his shoulders as she feels herself start to drop.

“Is this what you want?” he murmurs into her ear before kissing her again, tugging her hair again, letting her drop further down.

“Is this what you need?” he murmurs into her ear again before using her hair to pull her head back so he can place kisses along the line of her collar.

“Yes, sir,” she manages to gasp, feeling his mouth and tongue scalding hot against the skin of her neck.

“It’s okay, Skye,” he whispers to her. “Go down as far as you need to. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

He has her sit up so he can pull her nightshirt off. He folds it carefully and places in in a corner of the bunk. He does the same with her boxers and his exercise pants. He carefully folds the blanket and the top sheet while she sits and watches him and trembles.

He has her sit on the edge of the bed while he takes out the small black bag from the closet. When he stands up again, he feels her hand on his hip.

“Please, sir, I want…” Her eyes are on his cock, where he’s already hard.

He stands in front of her and buries his hands in her hair. When he feels her hands on him, he says, “When I tell you to stop, you’ll stop.” He gives her hair another tug and hears her breathing quicken.

“Yes, sir,” she whispers before taking his cock in her mouth.

He sighs, the combination of her lips and tongue and hands making him moan softly. She’s gotten so Goddamned _good_ at this, at taking him in, at taking him apart, that he has to be very careful _not_ to come. When he can feel her hands on his hips tighten and her tongue flutter just right against his cock, he tells her, “Stop.”

She reluctantly backs away, but she stops, and he gives her hair another long pull before taking his hands out of her hair. He pulls her up by her shoulders so he can feel her body against his. He bends down, just brushing his lips over hers. She whines and tries to stand up on tiptoe, but he patiently slides his hand into her hair again, keeping her from controlling the kiss. “Be good for me, Skye, and I’ll give you just what you want,” he whispers

“Yes, sir,” she answers, swaying in his grasp.

“Now lie face-down on the bed,” he orders, his voice still soft but firm.

She does as he asks.

She hears him open the bag and go through it. He puts different items in her line of sight on the nightstand; some are familiar, like the blindfold and the wrist cuffs, but some aren’t, like the black leather flogger and the paddle that has fur on one side and leather on the other.

She shivers and licks her lips.

He sits down beside her, stroking her hair; her back. “I’m going to hold up each piece that I want to use on you. When I do, I want you to tell me ‘green’ for ‘yes’, ‘red’ for ‘no’, and ‘yellow’ for ‘I’m not sure’. Do you understand, Skye?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers. “But…will you still use your hands, too?”

She hears him chuckle, and suddenly feels a sharp slap across her ass. She bites back a surprised yelp and fists her hands in the sheets to keep her hips from spasming off the bed.

“Thank you, sir,” she replies to his very physical answer, smiling softly.

He moves her hair so he can press a kiss against her collar. “Since this is the first time we’ll be using some of these pieces, I’m going to cuff you, but not restrain you with straps or rope. If you want to do this again, and you want to be bound, we’ll try it then, but not tonight. Do you understand?” he murmurs in her ear.

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, feeling moisture between her legs at the thought of being bound again. She understands why he wants to be careful, but suddenly, she realizes, she’s looking forward to the next time, and he hasn’t used a single piece on her yet.

She holds back a small smile. He can be so damned sneaky. And, God, she loves him for it.

He gently strokes her back, then picks up the wrist cuffs, holding them in front of her.

“Green,” she says instantly. The same for the blindfold. She says “green” to the flogger and paddle as well.

However, she says “yellow” to the riding crop.

“Can you tell me why?” she hears him ask as he soothingly runs a hand up and down her spine.

“I can’t…take much of it. Things that… ‘thud’…are good. Things that sting are sometimes bad because if…if you’re not skilled in using them, they cause too much pain and I have to call ‘red’ or even safeword out of the scene.”

“I’d like you to feel how I’m thinking of using it on you, but without any restraints. Just a few flicks. Would that be okay?” he asks her.

“Yes, sir,” she answers automatically. A part of her is sure he knows exactly how to use every piece he owns.

He stands, holding the crop loosely. Then, as quick as an adder, he strikes out three times, careful to land the blows on her ass. She grabs the sheet again and lets out a small mewl of sound.

She buries her face in the mattress. He knows exactly how to use it—to just bring blood to the surface of her skin with a series of small, tingling blows. She can’t help sinking farther down, and as she does, she can’t help pressing her hips into the bed.

For that, she gets a chuckle and a good-natured smack on the ass. “Greedy,” he murmurs affectionately, running one finger between her legs. Damn—she’s soaking wet already. “So are you willing to try the crop tonight?” he asks, running the tip of the crop up her spine, making her shiver.

“Yes, sir,” she sighs.

“Close your eyes for me now,” he says. “I’m going to blindfold you and put the wrist cuffs on.” She holds her head up with her eyes closed, and makes one of those little, contented noises when he ties the blindfold over her eyes, and again when he fastens and locks the wrist cuffs together. When he’s finished, she lays her head back down on the mattress.

“Good girl,” he whispers, smoothing a hand down her back. “I’m going to start with the crop, then move to the flogger, and I’ll use the paddle last. When I want to, I’ll use my hand.” He hears her make another of those tiny, contented sounds, sounds he’s only heard her make when she has his cock halfway down her throat.

She hears him ask, “Are you ready?” and she can only nod in answer. It’s been so long, but she remembers to relax her muscles so she can ride out the sensations instead of fighting them. Then, out of nowhere, he begins.

His left hand is on her thighs, and he uses the crop with his right. The blows from the tip of the crop are exquisite, tiny, fiery licks as if from a dragon’s tongue. He’s not heavy-handed with it—he doesn’t slam it across her ass, causing far too much pain. He just keeps giving her skin those fiery kisses with the tip, three to five at a time, and she’s arching her back, keeping her ass in the air for him, whispering, “Yes…yes…yes...” over and over again.

She feels herself falling farther as he intersperses the licks from the crop with solid blows from his hand. The pain is pleasure, now, and she feels herself spreading her thighs, knowing he’ll be careful. He is because he pauses to ease two fingers inside her and she whimpers. “Oh, please…” she whispers once, and feels him slowly ease his fingers in and out of her, and then the crop licks at her again, sweet fire raining down, and she wants to come so badly…

Dear God, she’s absolutely beautiful, her back arched, her legs spread for him, her hands fisted in the sheets, her whole body trembling. She’s absolutely soaked and her muscles are clamped down around his fingers, but she hasn’t moved her hips. He smiles. “You’re being so good for me, Skye. So beautiful.” He withdraws his fingers and she whimpers.

She’s panting and wet and horny as hell, but she knows that this is one of the hardest parts of a scene for her—he’s right, because she _is_ greedy, and wants to be fucked _right now,_ thank you, but she also knows that the longer she stays in the scene, the longer she lasts, the better it will be.

“Now the flogger,” she hears, and he starts at her shoulders and works his way down using a light figure-eight motion to draw the blood to the surface of her skin. She presses her face into the mattress to muffle a moan as the tips of the flogger skim her skin.

He makes the blows harder now—“thuddy”, as she calls it, the strands of the flogger now feeling soft and heavy against her skin. She sighs and relaxes into the rough caresses, shivering slightly every so often. “Please…more...” she hears herself whimper. The blows slow in pace, but are still evenly spaced, and heavier. “Thank you,” she whispers, falling into the sensation, letting the drop take over until time and space don’t exist.

She doesn’t notice he’s stopped using the flogger until she feels the fur side of the paddle being stroked down along her back, her sides, her ass, her thighs. Then he’s easing her thighs open and then two—no, three of his fingers are inside her, thrusting slowly, firmly, and she can’t help but press back into his touch.

“It’s okay, Skye,” she hears. “You can come once. Do you understand?” She nods frantically, panting with eagerness, and he laughs as she feels him put the paddle aside and reach underneath her to find her clit.

And then pure pleasure shoots from between her legs and she frantically rolls her hips back and forth between his hands, whimpering slightly. He uses two fingers to press those circles into her clit, just the way she loves, and she’s coming, her muscles clamping down hard as she holds herself still so she won’t disobey and come a second time.

“Good girl,” he whispers, carefully moving his hand away from her clit, but still keeping the three fingers of his other hand inside her. He stops to take a few deep breaths through his mouth and not his nose—if he smells her right now, he’s going to lose all control and fuck her where she lies. “Ten blows from the paddle, and then I’m going to fuck you, do you understand?” he murmurs in her ear. She only nods, making no sound. He’ll have to be careful—she’s down fairly far.

He takes up the paddle with his right hand and thrusts hard and fast with his left. He’s rewarded with an instantly arched back, widely–spread thighs, and a soft cry of, “Please!”

He smacks her firmly with the paddle, and she backs straight into it as if it’s a caress. He wants nothing more than to keep going, but he places the paddle along her back and runs a hand over her ass, carefully checking the area he just hit to see how her skin reacted to the blow. Her skin’s a bit warmer, but not hot. He might have left a bruise or two, but not a welt or a weal. He nods to himself, pleased.

“Nine more, Skye,” he says, and watches her reaction as he delivers each blow, and now she _must_ be far down because she’s grinding her hips into his hand each time. He lets himself inhale through his nose, to smell her arousal in the air around them, and the last few blows come faster than necessary. He puts the paddle on the nightstand and presses his hand down in the small of her back to stop her from moving. She whines.

“Easy,” he says to her. “Easy.” She settles under his voice, his touch. He takes his fingers out of her, wiping them off on a towel. He unlocks the cuffs on her wrists and removes them. He tangles a hand in her hair and turns her head so he can kiss her, hard and long.

When he breaks the kiss, he finally removes the blindfold. Her eyes flutter open—almost all blown pupil and nothing else. “Please,” she gasps. “Please fuck me.”

He eases her onto her hands and knees, turning her so he can stand up while he fucks her, so he won’t put too much pressure on her reddened skin. He rolls a condom over his cock and then he holds her hips, entering her slowly.

God, he feels so good inside her and she doesn’t care anymore and shoves her hips backwards. She hears him moan and feels him move inside her.

Now they’re moving together, and he has a hand on her hip and a fist in her hair. She’s clamped down tight around him and somehow manages not to scream when she comes, and comes hard. “Don’t stop,” she gasps. “Please, please, please don’t stop!”

“Not planning on it,” he growls, using her fierce and hard and she loves it.

He somehow holds on to the shreds of his self-control and manages to hold back until he can feel her body sag just slightly underneath his, and then he comes, good and hard and long, gasping her name over and over.

He eases out of her and makes sure she’s laying down on the bed before he tosses the condom and grabs a bottle of water, drinking the whole thing at one go. He checks Skye again.

She lifts her head and blinks when he says her name. “Hey, there,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple. He watches as she looks around, smiling softly when her gaze falls on him. “Feel like some water?”

She nods, still drifting. He puts a straw to her lips and she drinks slowly and carefully. She lays her head back down when he takes it away and watches as he takes a small jar from the nightstand and opens it. Her eyes close as he massages a cooling, soothing cream into her skin. “Better?” she hears him ask, and all she can do is nod again. He chuckles.

A bit later (it’s still hard to tell time), she feels the sheet, then the blanket settle over her. She can hear him putting everything away. She watches as he pulls on a pair of boxer briefs and his exercise pants and tugs on a T-shirt. He kneels down next to her and runs a hand through her hair. “I’m going to get us some food. Will you be okay until I come back?”

“Yes,” she whispers, starting to come out of the drop. Her eyelids fall closed as he leaves the bunk.

She wakes again when he comes back, carrying a tray. He smiles at her, puts the tray down on the nightstand, and helps her back into her nightshirt and boxers. “Hungry?” he asks, and she nods, resting against his chest when he settles them into bed. She smiles when she sees peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (crusts cut off), grapes, some chocolate chip cookies, and containers of chocolate milk. Somehow, he still manages to hand-feed her. The tray is empty when they’re through.

He reluctantly rises and takes the tray back to the galley. By the time he’s finished with the washing up, Skye is curled up in bed, asleep. He takes off his T-shirt (which is as unspoken a rule as Ward being allowed to hand-feed her at every opportunity) and slips into bed around Skye.

When he stretches out next to her, her nose twitches and she relaxes, pressing herself against him and nuzzling into his bare chest. “I love you,” she whispers softly, once, before wrapping an arm around his chest and a leg around his hip.

“I love you, too,” he whispers back, pressing kisses into her hair. He doesn’t want to relax into sleep—she’s his, and he feels this atavistic need to keep watch over her, to protect her. Then he feels her running a hand from his neck to his waist, petting him and petting him until something wound tight inside him loosens, making him stretch out and making his breathing slow.

“Rest, Grant,” she murmurs sleepily. “Just listen to the music and rest.” She yawns and nuzzles into his chest again, her hand, small, but warm, tracing the lines of his muscles until he finally, finally relaxes against her, wrapping his arms around her and sighing. He does as she says and listens to the music, and begins to drift into sleep.

_“Here is my heart and I give it to you_

_Take me with you across this land._

_These are my dreams, so simple and few_

_Dreams we hold in the palm of our hands.”_

He loves her…

He’ll protect her...

…even from himself.


End file.
